My own position became each day more intolerable. Within my heart opposing passions warred. Here were my brothers about to fight their last battle—persisting in a defiance which was as insane as their religion. I could not deceive myself. The instant I returned to the white men and the sight of my books I acknowledged the tragic desperation of my people. The dance became merely another of the religious frenzies which wise men say have attacked the human race, at intervals, for ten thousand years. A letter from The Blackbird said: “Keep away, Philip. Don’t mix in that mess. You can do no good. Your letter makes it evident that a tragic end is inevitable. You have done all you can. Throw in your lot with the white man. On the whole, the white man has the organization for the new conditions. To die with your people would be superb, but it would be wasteful. Don’t do it, my boy. Use your best influence against violence, but avoid danger. There is work for you to do in helping your people bridge the chasm between their mode of life and ours.”
I told him that I was already denounced as a coward and a traitor to my race. He replied: “No matter; ten years from now those who are still alive will see you in the light of a wise leader.” And in the spirit of this letter I sent word to my chief, saying that it was best to accept the agent’s rule.
The department did not like to be called rash; it feared the influence of the Indians’ friends in the East and so it hesitated, and these days of waiting were days of torture to us all. I could not look any man in the face. I went about my duties as if I, too, were in a trance. I really could have been called a spy, for when one of the scouts of my father asked me what was going on at the agency I told him I was under suspicion by both races and knew not where to turn for comfort.
The agent required my presence in his office each day, and to see my father and my chief meant a night ride of nearly eighty miles. This I dared not attempt, for the chief now reasoned that I had surely gone over to the enemy and I was certain he would not let me come to him. I was despised and rejected of both white man and red man, and had no one to comfort me.
The weather continued mild. Each day I searched the sky for signs of a storm. If only a tempest of snow would sweep over us it would stop the dancing, it would cool the fury of anger, and yet when the hate and contempt of the white man broke forth in my presence I hoped that my chief would fight. Better to die like the lion than live like a trapped wolf.
Meanwhile the chief and his little band continued to test the new religion, but the Chief was not satisfied.
“Why do these visions come only to the women and weak men? Why do they not come to my ‘Silent Eaters?’ Why does it not happen that I can go and see these things and return?”
He was growing weary of his prison and longed for the bright world where the spirits were. At last he came to a great resolution. He determined to leave the reservation and visit The Kicking Bear in order to learn more of the Messiah. He wished to know whether any new revelation had been made to other tribes. He had exhausted the value of the phenomena in his own camp and remained unconvinced.
He said: “The agent is going to send for me soon. I may go to the agency and I may not. No matter. You must not get into trouble on my account.”